


The Picture of John Gray

by ImaginaryLandscape (StowawayBunny)



Category: Forever (TV), Wilde (1997)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:10:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StowawayBunny/pseuds/ImaginaryLandscape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Picture of John Gray

“Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.”  
– Oscar Wilde

 

Henry remembered the first time he ever adopted a fake name. It was just after he was hanged for heresy. The noose tightened around his neck and his vision went black, along with the faces of the villagers that had gathered around the gibbet, some curious, some frightened, some vicious, some vindictive. 

When he reappeared in the river, he quickly made for shore and dug out the bag of clothes he had previously buried under a river oak. Donned with a pair of clear glasses and a fake mustache, along with a long and concealing overcoat, he hopped on the first boat heading out of town and never looked back.

The first boat heading out of town happened to be heading for London. Paranoid that some tradesmen from that blasted village might recognize him when they were doing business in London, Henry assumed the identity of a poet named John Gray who had recently passed away.

No matter how many places he’d been to, or how many cities he’d called home, London would always hold a special place in his heart. Immortality had turned him into a sojourner on a never-ending journey, a stranger and a passer-by to every new city and every new face he’d come to know. Some days he felt he was forever in exile, searching for a place to call home; other days he felt like he was already home, everywhere he went. 

As he’d always remembered, London was nothing if not teeming with history and pretentious folks who studied it. Posing as a poet in London where all the action was proved to be both stimulating and occasionally boring. Walking through the classically decorated gallery, over the dim sound of polite chatting, Henry was introduced to a great few scholars, poets, and writers by the very kind gentleman Robbie Ross. 

As he was studying the portrait of a beautiful young lady looking serenely to the side, debating idly with Robbie the merits of photographs as opposed to portraits, an amused voice cut in from behind him, “Portraits are not likeness, Mr. Gray. Painters show the soul of the subject, the essence.” Henry turned slightly and there he stood, Oscar Wilde, in the flesh.

“The essence of the sitter’s vanity, you mean,” replied Henry, albeit a bit frivolously, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Normally Henry was naively innocent in matters where others were cynical, such as the rarity of altruism and the poignancy of an aging body, but despondently cynical in matters where others were naïve, such as the rarity of trust and the poignancy of solitude – another side-effect of his “curse”, no doubt. But faced with the famous Oscar Wilde, master wordsmith and witty conversationalist, he couldn’t help but indulge in some silly over-pretentious repartee.

“Well, this is a portrait of Lady Battersby as a young woman,” said Robbie, studying the picture. “She’s over there, as a matter of fact.” Robbie turned slightly and subtly eyed an old lady who was chatting with a gentleman across the room. “I must go and console her,” he purported, ever the kind-hearted gentleman. 

Henry followed his line of sight and spotted the elderly and elegantly dressed lady in question. After a moment a deliberation, he turned back to the painting and whispered to Oscar, “Poor thing, I expect in her heart she thinks she still looks like this.” It was mere conjecture, of course, and a subconscious attempt to pretend that he understood the physical woes and the accompanying psychology of old age just like everyone else, when in his heart he was desperately wishing for a chance to experience the circle of life like an ordinary man, to have wrinkles on his face and find new grey hairs every day as life surely and inevitably headed toward a natural end.

But he was talking to Oscar Wilde, one of the most intriguing personalities of the time, and if he could pick his brain about the philosophies of immortality – “If we could look young and innocent forever…”

Oscar looked over interestedly with a wicked smile. “Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth,” he said. “Have we had enough of this? Shall we go and have dinner somewhere?” 

Henry wasn’t sure what kind of dinner Oscar had in mind, but the opportunity of debating the traps and intricacies of immortality and eternal youth with Oscar Wilde under the pretense of a hypothetical was too good to pass up. So he let Oscar throw an arm over his shoulder and let himself be guided out of the gallery.

Dinner turned out to be a charming affair. Oscar was an attentive companion and a riveting conversationalist, dropping witticisms at every turn. For someone who placed so high a value on youth and beauty, Henry wondered what Oscar would think of an old soul with the appearance of a young man, and whether his appreciation for youth and beauty was purely physical and superficial. Not that there was anything wrong with the appreciation for pure physical beauty. After all, it was only human nature. And Henry had lived long enough to know the futility and pointlessness of suppressing it. Although his “condition” had doomed him to a perpetual struggle between his yearn for human connection and fear of being betrayed, he had learned to allow himself indulge in other small, harmless aspects of human nature, like good wine, quality music, tailored suits, gazing at a beautiful female figure for a little too long to be appropriate, and occasionally the thrill of having a warm naked body pressed against him.

And that was why later that night, when Oscar’s boyfriend Lord Alfred 'Bosie' Douglas was kissing along his jawline and whispering sinful suggestions in his ear, his already feeble resistance crumbled entirely.

Maybe Oscar was right, “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

A year later, when Oscar’s new novel came out, Henry was already in Germany, fleeing from yet another familiar face in London who had recognized him as the guy who got hanged and then disappeared.

 

“Henry! Henry!” 

Jo's voice brought Henry abruptly out of his memory.

"So did you and Oscar Wilde ever have sex? Was Wilde really gay? Or was that just a rumour?"

"No, detective. We never had sex. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Huh." Jo dipped her face to sip her wine while trying to hide the hint of disappointment on her face, looking a bit like a child who was just caught with her hand in the candy jar. 

"But I did have sex with his boyfriend Bosie, and we let Oscar watch."

Jo choked on her wine and started coughing violently. She shot Henry a look of incredulity mixed with scandalous disapproval while furiously wiping wine from her mouth with the back of her hand. 

Henry just sat back smugly, thoroughly enjoying the look on Jo's face while contemplating the few perks of his rather unfortunate "condition". After all, what was the point of living forever if you couldn’t mess with unsuspecting co-workers’ minds with some ridiculously outrageous but utterly unadulterated truths from time to time and bask in the aftermath of their hilarious reactions.


End file.
